


Sokolov's Elixir

by SkoomaDen



Series: King Street [1]
Category: Dishonored
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-09
Updated: 2016-06-09
Packaged: 2018-07-14 03:15:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7150802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkoomaDen/pseuds/SkoomaDen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I'm hoping you'll find this, my old friend: That Dishonored fic you requested so very long ago.</p><p>Sokolov needs to quiet his restless mind with a callgirl.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sokolov's Elixir

No matter how hard he tried to push the memory away, it crept back into his mind, prodding at him, taunting him, his heart hammering against his ribcage as he played it, over and over. Her words rang in his ears as loudly as they had when she screamed them, the memory clawing away at the focus he needed to vivisect his latest specimen, the scalpel wavering in his shaking hands as his heart plummeted to the bottom of his booze filled stomach, giving into the memory, living it over again.  
Get OUT, Sokolov!  
The tears that had streamed down Jessamine’s face pieced even his heavily guarded soul; his pride crumbled as her temporary bodyguard grabbed his arm forcefully, leading him out of the compound. He saw her turn her back to him before the door slammed in his face, barely missing his crooked nose, the air pushing even the strands of his beard back in its path. He had drank an entire bottle of King Street on his way back to his apartment, staggering through the city, but it had done nothing to ease the hold his guilt had on him.  
He sighed as he remembered this for the fiftieth time, leaning back in his chair away from the diseased rat, stripping off his protective gloves before running a hand through his hair. The Royal Physician, an artist, an inventor, so easily destroyed by the temptation of a Golden Cat prostitute, leaving his empress in ruins. He did not mean to upset her- she had simply walked in on him and a young girl in her guest quarters, when he lost track of time, missing an appointment to paint her and Emily. She had just come in to check on him, and he let her see a side of him that he never wanted her to. How could he be so foolish? She had obviously taken a liking to him, how else would he have such freedom around the empire? And he had squandered it away, like a common civilian. He was disgusted with himself.  
And yet, even though the incident took place only hours ago, his need for sex pulled at him. True, he had never slept with the Empress- although he had thought of it many, many times. During encounters with many, many, different girls. He stroked his beard as he thought of what to do next: masturbate to subside his compulsion for the next half hour and hopefully silence his conscious as he worked, or call a prostitute down to his apartment, destroying her as his mind wandered to the next invention, the next painting, the next cure. Sex drove his creativity, opening doors to ideas that his conscious mind would never conceive. When he was deep inside a whore, hearing them scream his name as he was worlds away, he could see ways to refine his painting techniques, create inventions to denigrate bodies as they passed through, even a way to save Dunwall. Without a woman, he was useless.  
He was tired of ruminating on this matter. He stood up, and after pulling each of his arms through his coat, he grabbed his bottle of King Street around the neck, not bothering to smooth down his wild hair before walking down the stairs from his lab to his living room. He had a guard here for just such occasions- not that he needed the added protection, but rather that he would never be caught dead in The Golden Cat. The messenger saw him, straightening up from his slouched position. As he noticed the bottle of brandy in his hand and how disgruntled Sokolov looked, he pieced it together, cocking an eyebrow.  
“Another one, sir?”  
“Another one indeed,” he grumbled, taking three gulps from the bottle. Though he was not looking at the guard, he could feel the other man’s wink in his direction before he strolled off. No one understood his philandering; all assuming he was some womanizer that used his genius to take advantage of raw Cat girls. They couldn’t be farther from the truth; but they didn’t need to know that. Sure, let them think he was a playboy, a deviant. It mattered none. An innocent pussy attached to a girl clawing at him as he pushed himself deep inside her was all he needed; not a backstory.  
He walked back into his bedroom, corking the brandy for the time being, and began to smooth out the bedsheets from the romp with the last girl; not that it mattered. Even the youngest girl from the Cat knew his track record, knew she wouldn’t be the first girl of the day. He flopped onto the bed, propping his head up in the nook of his arm as he bent it behind him, waiting for her, his thoughts clouded. If he could just fuck this girl and get it over with, he could get back to working on a cure; until then, his thoughts were jagged, incoherent, like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle spilled across the ground with no reference on how to put it together.  
As much as he tried to forget the hours before, they wouldn’t leave him. He indulged the intrusions, tracing the steps he took that lead him to compulsively fuck a prostitute in the Empress’s guest quarters, of all places. He closed his eyes, rubbing his eyes with free hand, trying to remember. He had awoken on the kitchen floor of the quarters, not something he wasn’t accustomed to. He had searched for his King Street, his head killing him, yet still drunk from the night before. He had had the most realistic dream…what was it? Ah, of course. The Empress. Fucking the Empress. No- making love to her.  
Sokolov was not a man that loved; his passion was spent on his work, his paintings, his unsuccessful dark magic rituals. But, if he did feel love, it would have been for her. She ran the empire with an iron first, her power only surpassed by her beauty. When he masturbated to her, he wasn’t rough with her like every other woman he slept with; he was gentle, sweet. The dream had been the same way, he didn’t fuck her, he made love to her. It all seemed so real, so much to the point that he risked everything to get a Cat girl in his quarters, knowing he wouldn’t be able to focus on painting her if she was on his mind in any way other than being a powerful leader.  
Finally the door creaked open, breaking Sokolov’s concentration on the previous events, turning his attention towards the girl that stood timidly in the doorframe. He took in her appearance: white stockings up to her knees, white corset tied tightly around her waist and chest, the brown hair framing her nervous face. He watched her blue eyes scan the bedroom, purposely avoiding his glances. He couldn’t help that notice her resemblance to the Empress, wondering if the guard had planned this, or if he was seeing her face in this young girl’s as a manifestation of his guilt.  
He waved her over to the bed lazily as they made eye contact briefly, her heels clacking as she walked towards him, her stance still reflecting the inexperience that lay within. She sat on his bed, then laid down, chest level with him. He looked down his nose at her, studying her, deciding what way he would use her to allow creativity to flow through his mind. She was fragile, most likely couldn’t endure a good choke; or choke him during his climax, for that matter. Poor girl would probably press down on his carotid if he tried to explain his fetish to her anyways.  
He instead opted for a gentler approach at first, snaking his hand around her shoulders, pulling her closer to him. His lips met hers only briefly before he forced her mouth open with his tongue, only kissing her long enough to unhook her corset. His hands slid her white panties down, adjusting himself so he held her in one of his arms, the other working her stockings off. He continued to kiss her passionately, which she did not return, annoying him. After breaking away from her mouth, he gave her a quick slap across the cheek to focus her attention, pleased to see that afterwards she initiated a kiss herself. She wound his beard in her fingers, a nervous move that most of the fresh ones used to steady themselves. She was uneventful, boring. The perfect girl to use as a canvas.  
Once she was naked he pulled away from her; now that his beard was no longer there to toy with, she covered herself slightly, her hands shaking. He dropped his coat to the ground as well as his pants, leaving his overshirt on, only eyeing her in his peripheral. By the Outsider, she looked like the Empress. The thought would not leave him, her face when she saw him choking the cat girl, it wasn’t disgust; it was sadness. What was she saying to her bodyguard right now? That he was a filthy deviant, instead of how much she hurt from seeing him with another woman? How many nights had they spent together, discussing the plague and possible outcomes of her empire? Letting him stay in the guest quarters when Corvo was on leave? How could he have not seen how much she liked him?  
He knew why. Despite his feelings for her, at his core, he only cared about women on a superficial scale; they only existed to quell his wandering thoughts, to promote his creativity. He couldn’t think clearly without sex at least five times a day, even more if he was up in the late hours of the night. Sometimes he was so drunk that he couldn’t remember what he did until one of the guards congratulated him on how badly he had scratched or bruised a callgirl. He couldn’t have accepted that she actually found something attractive about him; he was a pig. She probably only liked him because how wrong he would have been for her; this reason alone was why he pushed any feelings about her that weren’t carnal out of his mind.  
He needed to be choked. It was getting to a point where he couldn’t even focus on the young girl in his bed, his thoughts all clamoring at once for his attention, desperately wanting to feel those split seconds of silence. His genius drove him mad. What he would give to settle down, to not worry about every outcome of every action of any circumstance. What he would give to not see the anatomy of animals or the blueprints of inventions fly into his mind as he tried to sleep, forcing him to create, to vivisect. “Always for the good of the empire.”  
Even he knew that thought wouldn’t stop the hammer of his madness chip away at the little sanity he had left.  
Finally he turned towards the girl, who still lay with her breasts covered, a look on her face of neither fear nor excitement, but bland. Oh, what it would feel like to think about nothing, to have no worries. This girl probably wouldn’t even care that she was being worked over by an older man who reeked of booze, she would just push it out of her mind, filling her empty consciousness with pictures of rainbows and up-do’s. Those empty eyes stared up at him as he walked near her, towering over her as he stood. Explaining things would do no good for this girl, she needed to be taught simply. He took one of her hands away from her breast, placing her palm on his throat. She looked only slightly quizzically at him, but those eyes still registered nothing.  
“How many men have you been with?” he growled down at her, knowing that taking the blunt route was the only way to reach any sort of mutual understanding with her.  
“17,” she answered blankly, although it was not given as a definitive statement. Sokolov opened his mouth to chastise her out of impulse, but closed it just as fast as he realized lecturing a prostitute on the proper form of the English language was not a valuable use of his time.  
“Will you recognize my orgasm when I have it?”  
“Yes,” Again, that uncertainty.  
He took his own hand and laid it over hers on his throat, squeezing her small one against his larynx, keeping her thumb away from his carotid.  
“Do this when I do. Keep your thumb up. Do. Not. Use. Your. Thumb.”  
She nodded blankly, and he dropped his hand with hers, rolling his eyes. Only 17 men. None of which were excited by asphyxiophilia? Could the guard have picked a less compatible whore for him?  
He tried to calm his racing thoughts, his eyes closed, breathing deeply; the aggravation he felt with the of this entire prudish empire, the rage at himself for not respecting the Empress, the thought of his feelings not being able to be logically analyzed baffling him. His insanity tightened its noose around his neck, plaguing him with insomnia, with psychosis, with an unquenchable sex addiction. He closed his eyes as he raked his hands through his hair, breathing heavily, his heart hammering, the tail ends of conversations ringing in his ears, the Empress’s tears streaming down her face in his mind’s eye, the pathetic prostitute who probably wouldn’t continue to choke him as he struggled to breathe against her palm, leaving him with a weak, unsatisfying orgasm….  
His eyes shot open, the blank faced girl still staring up at him. He wanted this to end. He needed this to end. He grabbed each of her legs roughly, throwing them over his shoulders as he pulled his cock out, entering her before she was any the wiser. He immediately groaned at the unexpected tightness of her pussy, gritting his teeth. Normally the wails of these girls seemed far away to him, but this one he could hear, as if she was screaming in his ear.  
He plunged into her as deep as her body allowed, his face inches from her own.  
“Do NOT fucking make a fucking SOUND.”  
Her eyes shut tightly, she nodded quickly as he gripped her thighs, pulling himself out except for the tip, then plunging into her again. He continued to slam into her, scratch her, slap her, trying desperately to end his racing thoughts, to get the Empress’s image to leave, but it wouldn’t work. He watched the girl grimace, her mouth hanging open, her eyes shut tight, wanting to scream but to terrified to do so, finding himself only slightly enjoying her pain. The bottle and a half of brandy he drank earlier had only dulled his senses, not quashed his psychosis, his mind pounding with disjointed theories, sloppier by the second as the booze coursed through his veins.  
He tried to think of anything to bring him to orgasm; controlling this girl’s verbal release of pleasure, making her choke him, that girl he choked today, the whore last week that he poured cheap whiskey on and licked off, that baker’s slut wife that he fucked while her husband prepared his sandwich in the kitchen, the snatch he deflowered roughly the night before her wedding, the prostitute that he bit so hard that she bled and how she tasted when he lapped up her blood, whale vivisection, the stupid dock worker’s daughter that he facefucked until he came in her throat, getting Piero kicked out of the academy, the time a callgirl fought back causing him to beat her senseless, when girls cried afterwards, infecting innocents with the plague, the innocents he raped before infecting them then leaving them as offerings to the outsider, the Empress naked, her sucking his cock, choking on it, letting him fuck her in front of her personal bodyguard, letting him fuck her in front of the Lord Regent as the bodyguard watched, digging her nails into him, scratching him, choking him until his consciousness faded…  
He grabbed the prostitute by her hair, snarling at her stupid, blank face.  
“CHOKE ME YOU FUCKING WHORE CHOKE THE FUCKING LIFE OUT OF ME OR I’LL SLICE YOUR FUCKING FACE OFF.”  
Her eyes opened in fear as she quickly grabbed him around the throat with both hands, pressing hard on his windpipe as he convulsed from his orgasm, silently screaming as she restricted his air flow, his hands tightening into fists in the bedsheets, picturing the Empress, her hands squeezing his neck, calling him a worthless fucking psychotic revolting deviant, digging her sharp nails through his flesh, slapping him across his face, telling him she hated him, that she wished he were dead, that she would throw his body in the river and no one would ever find him, ever remember him…  
Then silence.

He fell onto the prostitute, breathing heavily, his body limp. Nothing played in his mind. No images, no blueprints, no theories, no conversations past or future, no guilt, no impulses, nothing. 

Just silence.

**Author's Note:**

> As a Sokolov fan, and allover Dishonored fan, I was pleased to write this. I decided to piggy back off this idea- Sokolov's love for the Empress- and created a prequel to this. It's been in the works for over a year, due to school and commissions, but I will post it eventually.


End file.
